Waking Arousal
by Mugen7
Summary: Stirred up feeling aroused is a natural and common experience, he can't help that. And it would be a terrible shame to waste it, even if he's unaware who the woman beneath him is.


**Waking Arousal**

 **Written by Mugen7**

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" _Confusion is the first step toward clarity."_ – **Syd Field.**

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First thing he does as he gradually comes to from his deep sleep is to snuggle his face into the comfy pillow, letting out a strained wheeze as he stretches and grinds his body on the softness beneath him.

Mind nebulous, and sore and irritant are the eyes he refrains from opening, and his body feels leaden, like dead weight. Even his piercings hurt. He hasn't the foggiest idea on how he ended up this way, nor can he make a lick of sense of what occurred prior to his, imminent slumber. 'Twas a blur.

He curses, clenching and unclenching his jaw. While his inert build moves as a lumbering mess aches volley all over him... particularly at the nether.

Morning wood? Or, the result of some other stimuli...?

Whatever the cause, his hardness was unduly stiff; pain flares from the subtlest of movements yet it's with a burning arousal that beckons him to rub his length against the supple surface under him. His voice presents itself as grated moans as his erection is pressed into the yielding layer. Pleasure and pain, inexorable.

Cosy (and pained) as he is his face is hot, uncomfortably so. Thus he lethargically brings his hand up and around to flip the pillow over to a cooler side...

Only the 'pillow' feels more like a mound than an actual pillow, and if his discovery after squeezing and handling the full, round mass for x-amount of time is any indication alone, his finger brushed over a bud – a small protrusion felt under thin fabric.

Unthinking, his other hand reaches the second mound in a similar manner and traces over the protrusion quicker than the first.

Unexpectedly, the sound of moaning forces him to stay his hand. His head moves, up and down, to the heaving of... a chest – and his body shifts involuntarily to the squirm of the softness he lays atop of.

A weight alluding to the same softness yet partially firmed presses to his side, and another up against his crotch, kneading his sore and erect mast eliciting and afflicting-gratified growl to level through his throat. The opposing weights act in near accordance in an effort to come together; the one between his legs more demanding with its seeming protest.

Rapid throbbing of his mast that the tremor-like sensation sears and encourages the inadvertent pursuit of a agonizing hedonistic fulfilment as he acquiesces to his body's desire to indulge in carnal whims. Ergo, allowing his heavy and lumbering frame to meld and caress the effete stature below.

It soon dawns on his addled mind that, yes, it is a woman's body that he rests on, groping with his stature for all the undetermined time. But to whom does the body belong to? And this woman... does he know her?

…

The woman sighs, softly, evinced as a near-melodic tune, and her body writhes to the churn of his. An eager reciprocation.

His lower half shifts; body aligning more to her centre. He travels up, nuzzling and unearthing her form as he goes – the pleasurable feel of the woman's identified thigh against his hard rod is superseded by the spot betwixt her legs. Hips roll and guide his rigidity; large and throbbing with a voracious sear as it shoved along the woman's clothed nether region.

Slim arms curl and wrap around him strongly like a tight mantle. Fingers plant themselves firmly into him with a bite, and drag all over the span of his broad back in fevered circulation. He secures their embrace with muscled arms, one burrowing underneath and folding around her waist, the other around the upper tier of her back – hand grasping her shoulder.

The motions of her hips turn more active. Front, side, back, side, and so on. A raw, intense undulation that makes him gurgle with rapture.

Further and further they coordinate, doggedly pursuing a point of synchronicity. Nerves opening and channelling excitement, the vibrations of their bodies on contact, the ardent echo of her breathing and the rumbled sound of his heart in his ears – all inspiring a conviction to seize the uttermost state of physical intimacy.

A cone of energy spreads; suffusing, entwining, anchoring them so that no matter how far they're pulled apart they're still bound by a hot alliance – an entrapment of thickening desire.

The currency of life surges through him. A torrential red river broiling with inexplicable vitality to the awakening of tantric pathways. His vessel an emotional body of libidinous, exuding primal need. Basic, virile, a potent fertility of carnality mirrored in the woman's own bodily expressions.

Teeth graze, tongue laps, and lips peck the space of her neck with a broken chasteness, evidence to the fragility of his self-control that see-saws in and out of balance. His nose inhales deeply an evocative fragrance. Sweet, and minty. A tonic that works to unburden his mind of the lingering obscurity while having a strengthening effect in elevating the vibrancy of his sexual drive. Her smell an aphrodisiac.

He listens to the high and dulcet tone of her voice splinter as his thrusts grow more bold and daring. His stiffness, already forced into a painful, pleasurable bulk, expands more. The bulbous head sparks with a thrilling shock as it's furnished with his own pre-ejaculate. Little wetness, however prolific enough that the viscous fluid lubricates the whole of the head and spreads past the ridge.

The genital caress becomes exceedingly more prevalent as the woman's strong thighs clamp him, lower legs crossing over behind; pulling and affording him a more intimate feel of the profuse dampness that soaks through to his bulge.

Their body's stroke each other at an accelerated rhythm. With a toss here and a turn there, he wrestles the woman with a rough, pressing playfulness. Arousal heightens. Through touch and avid exploration of her form he builds an image of the woman's body in his less hazy mind; scent, trace, and sounds applying more to the aesthetic of the 'She' he yet looks upon with opened eyes.

He leaves her neck, and lightly fondles the shell of her ear with his mouth. A silent questioning from himself to her: _Is this okay?_ And, _Do you want more?_

She induces a warm, affable moan in response, quivering once he retraces her neck on both sides; pampering the erogenous zone with abusive mouth work that tickles her flesh and makes her shoulder reflexively hunch.

Four fingers trail the curvature of his spine and come to the nape of his neck, feeding through his thick, long hair. Her thumb pushes on the space of his occipital bone, and her finger cradle his head, massaging his scalp with the right amount of firmness that a pervading rush courses round, offsetting him like an anaesthetic. He shuns it, narrowly, but the sedative treatment depredates another sum of his control, drawing him further into delirium. Primitive euphoria cannibalizing him at a faster rate, he grows more desperate – desperate for that connection; to feel her wholly and with no interference.

He withdraws the arm around her waist and lifts his torso enough to slip his hand between them and grab her clothing. Tugging once, and on the second pull the garment gives way and opens on cue with a snap and pop. He lays his hand on her directly; a flat abdomen that flexes, sensitive to his bare touch, navel reeling in. He wanders, touring her body in depth from her waist to her bust. A womanly figure that's smooth and toned, and soft, yet fluent with power (the image in his mind becomes clearer).

The woman takes after him quickly, only her wandering is more focused. She hastily reaches for his crotch, and with surprising deft frees his shaft from confinement. The temperature of open air contrasts the heat of his length. Her touch however brings him to shudder and release a shaky breath, voice sharp and husky. Clutching his shaft in a comfortable way that allows her to stroke him with ease, she starts out slow but quickly pumps him vigorously, pulling down far enough unhood the head entirely. The pulsing, unyielding energy threatens to blow; desperation for them to join with climbing manifold.

Hurriedly he brings his roving hand back, moving down, yanking away the obstructing fabrics that block his access to her nether. Sex exposed, the woman adjusts her hold, enabling him to run the underside of stiffness over her labia, gasping in unison with him as their muscles spasm from the full-on contact.

More and more and more the crescendo builds. It's not enough for him to slip and slide; to spread her lips with his girth, be electrified by the douse of her arousal, and titillated by the erect bud of her clitoris. He yearns to delve, to take a deep dive and lose the last vestige of restraint from inside her, saturated by eroticism and come undone outright...

But for whatever reason, he's hesitates.

He stifles himself, bit-by-bit, until he shackles his movements with what remains of his whittled self-possession. His hips freeze in their backed position, bound in set, defiant readiness. Legs bent at the knee, mouldering patience weighing on the bones. His blatant pause is addressed as a loud plea of silence. He bides his brittling stance, waiting for consent.

The woman's sentiment is diametrically opposed to his solicitude however; she physically verbalizes this. Her legs unwind and extend, tangling around the back of his legs – and the hand servicing him fiddles with his cock, using it play with her folds and poke the slick head through, vaginal lips wrapping round with a wet kiss.

She keeps it there, bordering the precipice, clutching his shaft at the base tightly. Blood pools and veins swell. He folds, abdominal muscles clenching, and he pants. She tugs on his length again, and again, and again, until the head is propped directly against the small entry...

And then she lets go.

He jitters. Id hounds him enter her. Ego, however, holds him back by a thin thread, exhorting him to consider his actions.

 _Does he do it (Does he enter)? Is she allowing him (Is she being rational)? Is this... right?_

– Why now must his conscience speak to him?

Fortunate, the argument between the personae does reach a sound end. His decision becomes eloquently clear once he feels her touch, both hands taking her by the rear, and with one nudge she jerks him forward. His prick stretches open the hole of entry, and he listen to the silent question that ends his arrest: _What are you waiting for?_

Plunging, he sinks in all the way. He tries (oh he tries) to savour the gratification of simply filling her up, trying to remain perfectly still. This peak of intimacy, this connection he madly lusts for, he now has. The molten warmth of her liquid stream coating his manhood, the changing constrictions of her sex, fluttering wildly to accommodate his size. Ineffable.

The woman gasps, back arching in splendour, breasts pressing up to his chest. The deep penetration debilitates what's left of her composure, he knows it, **feels** it. And he, too, is at the end of his rope. Slivers of weak virtue of temperance and chastity dissolved and like a starved beggar given food becomes a glutton enamelled with lust.

The beast takes charge. Ploughing and thrusting in hard enough to take her breath away – his deep reach forging a build of wondrous pressure to sprint through her from head to toe; his cock jabbing her cervix apace.

She laments every time he pulls back far enough to suggest he'll slip out and yelps twice as loud every time he rocks back in with rough course. She's pinned by the weight of his build and the force of his hips, thieving whatever leverage she may gain to tussle and alter their position in her overexcited state.

They are lost, in each other and the controlling fancy of ecstasy. He ruts with an indefatigable burst, and she lies and holds onto him with exultant keen, penetrating him with receptivity and surrender, coping with his passionate aggression.

The searing heat that welcomed him upon waking mixes with a puddling wetness, rippling up and down, and the swollen head of his shaft is overripe, assaulted by tantalizing sparks that are confined in no other zone.

Harder and harder he slams, structure quaking and fluid overflowing that it leaks, his load battling to break free.

Faster and faster and faster he drives, celerity moving him one step closer to the edge.

Faster, harder, faster, **harder, faster, and faster and faster and faster,** until he gives out. Buried in and locked up his cock flares, twitching and pulsing, and he howls fiercely, **coming** with a heavy release, rapt with relief as the tension leaves him.

A cool wave slowly replaces the pleasurable sear he ejects into the woman. But although the pain is relieved and the warm pleasure caresses him in passing, he persists. Adamant and hungry for more he fights his exhaustion. The beast continuing its charging.

The woman is not far behind. Wailing, an orchestra of superheated sparks and electricity tide through her. The heat radiating from his hard body attracts, and the rush of ejaculate that entered imprints a primitive crave in her, a lust for more indulgence.

Timely, her explicit desire reaches its inevitable climax. One significant jab becomes her undoing, her voice rising in a soundless cry. The dam breaks, and a turbulent wave flows and crashes through. Arms shake, legs flail, and her body careens and shiver with a rapid rhythm well throughout and after the peak measure of her orgasm.

… Soon, they lay still, cradled against one another. Entirely enervated, and aware.

His tunnel vision subsides, and his seeing is now clear-cut, as is his mind; the beast retreating back into shadow. And it's because of this clarity that he is unable to conceal his surprise, for he stares into the vivid shade of tresses his faces is pressed against. The colour is brilliant, luxuriant. A colour that represents the act of sin they'd drowned themselves in.

The mental image of the woman's body he had constructed and sympathized with, was now complete with the recognition of this particular shade of hair. The revelation laid bare before him; beneath him.

The urge to laugh right then is as serious as it is awkward. No doubt she, too, was now aware of his identity just from determining his features. And yet... what he expects to happen next, doesn't.

Her equanimity doesn't disquiet him as much as it pacifies. She makes no impression that she is discomforted by his weight nor that she wishes him to move. So he thinks himself safe, but not entirely sure.

However, as though a heartfelt correspondence resonates, an implicit sense of empathy comes between them, thus he allows himself to relax further. While the awkwardness may have been lifted, him, and her, were left with the joint decision to a serious question neither were up to the task of answering just yet.

 _Where do we go from here?_

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 **FIN**


End file.
